


As Long as There are Two Moons in the Sky

by ProustianPeach



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProustianPeach/pseuds/ProustianPeach
Summary: A phone call from Novak after Murray's second-round loss in USO.(One shot for now but if inspiration compels, it can turn into a chronology of a long relationship. There are lots of unexplained tension and clues because I wrote this envisioning a complete back story that I have yet to write.)Title taken from a chapter in Murakami's 1Q84 for no specific reason other than I like the imagery and I find that the slow-burn nature of that book vibes to this relationship.
Relationships: Novak Djokovic/Andy Murray
Kudos: 13





	As Long as There are Two Moons in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one-shot mostly to make myself feel better about Murray’s absolutely abysmal and borderline painful performance against FAA. It felt like watching the lights go out at the end of an era, especially on the heels of such an awe-inspiring triumph in the first round. I was genuinely so distraught the whole match and just wanted Murray to play a little bit better than he did. As always, writing and imagining are my ways to deal with reality, and hoping this will make you feel something too.

When the line connects, for a brief second, no one speaks first. 

The sound of muffled silence feels eerily empty against Novak’s ear. 

“Oye” Andy’s voice comes through, a bit hesitant, a bit distant, but that flat tone is unmistakably Andy’s . Novak catches a breath, just realizing he has forgotten to do so.

“Hey, it’s me. I mean, Novak. I just watched… I mean, I just wanted to check. You know, to see if you are alright.” 

Words are rushing out in a disjointed chorus, each singing a different tune. Novak feels somehow like his tongue is too large for his mouth.

“Yeah, ‘am fine. Gettin’ physio now.” This explains why his voice sounds like it’s coming through five layers of wool. Novak imagines Andy is probably lying face down in a massage bed, face shoved into the headrest and propping up his head just enough to hear out of one ear. 

“Thanks for checking, mate” Andy says after a full beat of silence. Dry but sincere. Novak can always tell when he is being sincere. 

“Good, and your hips, they are fine?” Novak asks. He wonders how Andy will interpret this question: a cordial gesture from a long-time friend, an intrusive inquiry from a long-time rival, or perhaps something else entirely? He realizes he hasn’t felt so insecure in a while.

“They are what they are.” Andy pauses, and then adds, in that characteristic nonchalance: “ I’ve felt worse before."

Yeah, Novak half hisses and half smiles, I know, I remember, I was there. 

The taste of memories -- a bit acrid, a bit sweet, summons an impulsive energy in Novak, and the question rolls off his tongue: “was it hurting you? During the match I mean, it just looked…” 

There’s another pause on the other end. Novak hears distant instructions in the background, a bit of shuffling, and a grunt, compact but solid, like obsidian. 

“Like hell” When Andy’s voice comes back, still monotone, but it has a hint of rawness now, like a layer has been grated away. 

“I know” Novak almost whispers. He still can’t control the innate urge to baby talk to Andy whenever he is in pain, even after so many years. 

“I am sorry” He does well enough to swallow the word “baby” at the end but somehow the word leaves a phantom echo.

“I am sorry too.” Andy responds quickly this time, almost deliberately trying to paste over the conversation’s sudden change of tone. “A lot of people wanted to see us in the finals, I reckon.”

“I wanted it too. I knew it was going to be a long shot, for me, not that you have to try particularly hard.” Andy adds, and Novak imagines the exact curve of his deprecating smile on the other side.

“You have done well. I mean, the comeback is incredible enough as it is.” Novak offers, but can hear the lack of conviction in his words, like air can reverberate through them.

“Maybe it is my last comeback. Not sure if I will play the French Open in this state, and beyond that…” The answer trails into a marsh of silence upon which Novak does not know how to tread. He hears the sound of a choked cry premating through the speakerphone. 

“Andy, Andy” Novak says, low and gentle and confessionary, “I shouldn’t have called. I am sorry.” I always make it worse, don’t I? Novak chides to himself.

He suddenly feels that his face is wet and slimy, has he been crying too or is New York especially humid this summer?

Another extended period of nothingness. Long enough for Novak to think that Andy had forgotten to hang up or threw the phone somewhere far away from him. For some reason, he doesn’t hang up either.

And then, the Scot’s voice eclipses back in, like a sliver of moonlight through drawn curtains. His accent still has that distinct coarseness after crying but it sounds somewhat firmer, more real than before. 

“Listen, will you come and see me before I leave? I mean, maybe it’s not the best time, with this whole social bubble thing”

Novak finds himself not even thinking about it --- quarantine rules are easy to violate, personal boundaries are harder to cross --- yet he is someone who made his name through his extraordinary defiance to fate.

“Yes, whenever you want me to.”


End file.
